The Anderfel Champion
by AimeeCollins
Summary: Ask around for a go-to plan when you MGIT, and you'll get: "Head to Flemeth's hut and impress her with your foreknowledge." "Seek refuge in Orzammar before their king dies. Drink ale until the Warden shows up." "Find Lothering and Leliana." None of which applies when you MGIT as Meredith Stannard in Kirkwall, Dragon Age 31. At least the Blight is over. Crossposted from AO3
1. Knight-Commander

Before Thedas

I've been a daydreamer for as long as I can remember. When I was a child, my mother would have to pull me out of the way to keep me from walking into things or from crossing the street without looking. She averted all manner of other disasters just by keeping an eye on me. With all the window-gazing I was prone to do, finishing high-school says something about my determination. While Mom worried about my perceived lack of social activity in elementary, I was all good to play with my two friends. Usually we played football or held dodgeball matches during recess.

They probably regretted the day they allowed me to get a laptop, because I was glued to the screen for entire days. Showers and sleep were still part of my routine, so I wasn't like the addicts who'd rather pee in a bottle than go to the toilet. My other hobby was watching House MD, Grey's Anatomy and other doctor shows. Good thing I'm not squeamish about blood.

Gaming was more my father's thing. After my parents got divorced, I'd still visit him every weekend, and he'd let me do my own thing on my laptop. He played the heavy duty shooters and the Defiance-esque games and everything, I sat holed up in my room playing the Sims. I'm sorry, I meant torturing the Sims. No shame here, it's what we all do.

His computer was a custom made thing with fans that could help lift a plane off the ground; my laptop was a small thing on its last legs by the time RPG's became a thing.

Oh, and yeah, I was around when MSN rose and fell. I'm 22. Yes, that age where you realize that you're not the force that keeps the universe going. Or life. Or anything, really. I studied accounting, miraculously found my first job in that field, and botched it within six months. They kept me on for another three while looking for my replacement. Joy of joys. The second job wasn't much better. Or should I say, I wasn't much better.

Change of plans. Instead of looking for an accounting job, I took the first job within reach: washing dishes in a restaurant. I'd been washing dishes at home for years, which is obviously different from washing dishes in a restaurant, but whatever. It was an instant success. It might have been boring as Hell, and sometimes acted as a stage for Hell in my daydreams, but it got bread on the counter and a place to live in.

I completely forgot to mention how having a father with autism and ADHD hooked me up with autism and ADHD. My mother, and all the stepfathers that came and went, had no fucking idea how to deal with that. I was a total pushover, scrambling around to please everyone, ignoring my own feelings and denying my own problems because my mother and stepfather kept telling me that I was making the problems. Thanks a lot, Mom.

Paranoia is my middle name. For whatever reason, sometimes it jumps out and convinces me that people are talking about me while I know perfectly well that the world doesn't revolve around me. Maybe it's undiagnosed narcissism. Maybe it's delusions of grandeur.

Or maybe it's just all the Red Lyrium underneath Kirkwall. Or the blood magic.

Because one day, I came back from another exhausting 12-hour day, took a shower and decided against better judgment to game a little before bed. I'm pretty sure I woke up with keyboard imprints on my forehead at five in the morning, with a blue screen o' death demanding attention, while rain was pouring in through the cracked window. Oh, yeah, and let's not forget the burglar. With a gun.

I think he was twitchy or something, because he spooked when I slammed my elbow against my desk as I fumbled to my feet. Next thing I knew, there was a bang, a flash, and piercing pain cracking through my skull. Getting shot in the head isn't nice. Screaming my head off because it hurts a lot isn't nice. Getting shot in the head twice while a criminal kicks you in the ribs and tells you to shut the fuck up isn't nice, either.

Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 05:00 AM

'Waking up' in an apartment not out of place in Sparta the movie is much more fun, but not as much fun as waking up in your own house after dreaming the head shot fiasco. The room I woke up in was blah, even when the sun only just peeked through slitted windows. It was small and nearly empty and spoke of a no-nonsense person's reign. A single bed shoved against the wall, covers tangled on the floor because I'd flailed my way out of them. A crude wooden nightstand with two drawers and a bare surface. A closet on the other side, a rack with three levels next to it. Sunlight reflected off metal. Some kind of bizarre decoration?

Wait a minute. If I got shot in the head, where's the pain? Touching my head as carefully as I can, I tangle my fingers in my hair and search for blood, wounds, bullet fragments, anything. Hair brushes over my shoulder when I pull it aside-

My hair hasn't been long since I was six. It hasn't been blonde since I'd started dyeing it brown at thirteen, either. It's soft and smooth, not crusted up with gore and sweat. The single bed doesn't look like a hospital bed. No machines, no IV, no blaring alarms because I fell out of bed and accidently detached a dozen of life-supporting tubes and what the fuck is that pot doing on the ground?

This is bad. This looks every bit like a room that was supposed to look homely, but failed disastrously and knows it. It screams mental institution. Fuck. I look down at my hands. If I'm really in a mental institution, my nails will be short to the point of having bled when they were clipped. My friend's suicide attempt has taught me that much. I look down at my hands

I'M NOT LOOKING DOWN AT MY HANDS.

My own hands are small, because I'm a small person. Or I was a small person. I'm taller now. But me isn't me and I'm ridiculously tall and bulky. Bulky. I used to work out, lifting weights, but this body doesn't belong to the Grethilda (yours truly) who deadlifted and squatted 25kgs thrice a week. This body belongs in Behind Enemy Lines.

Oh God no, I've been in a 22-year long psychosis. I've been living in a padded cell for my entire life without even being aware of it. Oh God, what if I was in prison, which would explain my buffness, and they used me as a guinea pig for experimental brain transplantation or something. I believe that the you that is you is right at home in your brain, no soul or other spiritual attachments. Which means that a brain transplant transfers the you that is you into another body. Surely doctors believe me the same. Which means guards, locked doors, prison bars.

Unless they found a way to transplant the memories of someone who'd never broken a law in their life into my head. It makes a frightening amount of sense. Destroy the criminal's mind, transplant their brain into a criminal who's memories don't allow for suppression, or a brain dead person, or a suicidal person, and pray for nurture over nature.

Wherever I am and whatever they did to me, I'm not staying around to face the aftermath.

As any sane person who wants to escape would do, I started snooping.

Not that looking around did me any good. The wardrobe revealed a few shirts, tunics, whatnot. There was only one skirt. No dress. Something that looked like leggings, meticulously folded and sorted color. By color. Whoever did that is insane. Wait, if this is a mental institution, it's not that weird. Orderliness and all that. And I have to admit it's easy on the eyes.

But what's with the bright colors? Hospital clothes are drab and boring and calm. The brightest I've seen are bright yellow hospital gowns on Suzanne Young book covers. About fictional mental institutions. Gotta love the irony.

So what's this? What's with the god-awful bright yellow hexagon thing on a freaking red shirt? The thin yellow lines scream against the red background. I hold it in my hands and brush my thumb over the fabric. Rough cotton, sturdier than the shirts I buy at convection stores. Bigger than my size, too. Still… maybe it's one of the oversized shirts I used to sleep in? A second-hand buy to snuggle in at night? The skirt at least tells me that I've hijacked a woman's body, or the body of a cross-dresser. Which would be fine, too, apart from the 'do I pee standing or sitting down now' dilemma.

Anyway, thinking about cross-dressing finally gets me to look further than my hands. She has scars. There are burns that haven't healed well, and thin lines on her legs and arms that hint at knives being involved. Something took out a good chunk of her right calf.

Son of a bitch, they torture people here. If my legs and arms look bad, what will my face look like? Someone give me a fucking mirror.

There's a bathroom, with a hole in the ground for a toilet at the end (ew), a sink to my left and a bathtub to my right. Everything looks like it was crammed in and is now stuck, to forever stand silent vigil long after their owner gets violently murdered by these crazy people that brought me here. The walls are plastered in the same drab beige as the rest of the place.

There's a mirror above the sink, and with leaden feet, I take a step toward it. OK, I can do this. I should do this. Knowing what I look like will make it easier to get the fuck out of this place. Gripping the stone sink (that's odd, isn't it?), I pull myself in sight of the mirror.

Good glorious god, are you fucking kidding me?

Eyes so vividly blue they practically leap off the mirror. Frown lines around those eyes, dark circles underneath. Bristly eyebrows, mouth curved down in a permanent sneer. Framed by long, shiny blond hair.

"Shit. Oh shit," a melodious voice says, with hysterics underneath. I dig my nails into my palms so I don't laugh or scream. Her voice is more beautiful than mine could ever hope to be, because I've had partial vocal cord paralysis since I'd been born, resulting in a creaky hoarse voice that I hated. Surgery had made it better, but not like this.

"At least I'm not in a mental hospital or a padded cell." I mutter to the me-who-is-not-me. New me's voice sounds low and somewhat sharp. My new voice, apparently. The bad thing is: I recognize it. Had I mentioned yet that I've played Dragon Age? The second installment is my favorite game, because who doesn't love Hawke?

Hint: I'm not Hawke. I didn't even get lucky enough to get stuffed into Merrill's or Isabela's body or even some random NPC. By now, I would've been happy to have hijacked Verania. Or Hadriana, Magister/Slaver situation notwithstanding. Hell, Bethany would've been glorious. Even Carver would've been fine, acute transsexuality aside. I'd just hole up somewhere and make friends with Krem by the time Inquisition rolls around.

I'm pretty sure I haven't mentioned yet that I'm 100% pro-mage, to the point that my father peered at my screen with a frown on his face, asking me if the burning church was a good thing because I was cheering. Yeah, I'm that kind of player. The leave-your-morals-at-the-launch-screen player. The kind of player that has done both a Darkest Timeline and a Kill Everyone playthrough. The characters are real to me until the screen goes black.

I think this might be punishment for my blatant disregard of innocent lives.

Something hums on the peripheral of my mind, a slow seeping song that tugs at me. Sadly, it's not because I'm a renegade mage. I stomp back to the bedroom and open the other door, to what's apparently a small living room. Oh, and I have a kitchen. I know how to cook, so I can cook for myself. And I'll probably be all by myself for the rest of my borrowed life. Yay.

Unless you count Templars as company.

One last thing before I start screaming in absolute horror, and praying to Andraste and the Maker and any Old God that wants to listen (though five are out because they're dead.) I follow the song and end up at a weapon rack. There's another rack next to it with minimalist armor. It has no decorations save for the Templar sword. Joy. What's more disconcerting is the sword in the stand.

I pick it up, and the hum becomes louder and more insistent, as does the song. Where first there were distant nonsensical chill-inducing whispers, now I make out a word or two. They're underlined by a lazy thrum that might just be a heartbeat of something big.

Fallen… endure… wait… found…

Er… this is creepy as fuck.

Warmth seeps from my fingers into the rest of my body. Obviously, Hawke and company have made the trip to the Deep Roads. Shit, I have absolutely no idea if Hawke's a man, a woman, or even a mage. And which sibling is alive and who died? I guess I'll ask my assistant when I get to it. Nothing will faze her, that I know for sure.

Because the sword I have in my hands? It's made out of Red Lyrium. And then I do scream. I clamp my hand between my teeth as to not alert anyone.

Though I'm sure the Templars are used to the madness that is Meredith fucking Stannard by now.

Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 07:32 AM

It isn't as bad as I thought it would be. When I finally emerge from my apartment in the Templar barracks, probably way too late but hey I'm in charge here so who the fuck gives a shit, I'm wearing armor (thank you, Elsa, my dearest Tranquil assistant, for your unblinking lecture about where bits and pieces go) and I brought the Red Lyrium sword. If I can sneak away, I'll drop by Hawke's and get Sandal to look at it. Anything to get the song out of my head. I wish I could go by Anders's afterward to get looked at myself, but I don't really feel like facing a spirit of Justice. Even if I'm technically on his side.

Wait. I'm in Meredith Stannard's body. But I'm not Meredith Stannard. I'm not from the Fade. What does that make me? A spirit? A demon? Just another obligatory Modern Girl In Thedas? Speaking of Meredith, if me being here makes her an abomination, where is she in my head? Are we one? Have we merged? God, please don't let her be shoved into a dark corner of my mind, seething and frothing at the mouth, waiting for just the right moment to give me an aneurysm or something. That'd be just my luck.

I stop dead in my tracks, obscured by crates and boxes, and frown myself into a migraine, reaching out with my mind.

Hellooo, anyone home?

Nothing. Hm. Let's try that again. Let's crank up the flattery, too.

My most favorite Knight-Commander in the world, are you present? Are you well? Hello? I swear I'll take good care of your body. I swear I won't decorate your apartments with the pinkest pink of fluff. Hey, that's a good idea.

Yeah, my flattery sucks. And Meredith doesn't answer, if she's even there. What had Anders said? "I can't discern between my thoughts and Justice's thoughts"? Coming from the guy who can have black-outs and regularly gets himself hijacked by a murderhappy spirit, it's probably best not to put too much stock in anything he says about spirits.

Have I ever heard Solas speak about possession? He's the Fade expert. But no, I can't remember. The closest thing was how he taught himself to be safe from possession or something, and how spirits are easily corrupted into demons.

Hm… I think I'd be a Pride Demon. Or a Hunger Demon. Maybe that's why I get hangry. Yeah, no, I'm not really a demon or a spirit. So I can't reach Meredith, which is probably for the best (imagine the arguments. She'd break me by sleep deprivation alone.), but I might have her memories. Maybe. What do I know about her? She had a sister, Amelia, who got possessed by a demon and murdered her entire village.

… Wasn't there an Amelia in Honnleath? Nah, timeline doesn't add up. Plus, Meredith's entire family is dead. Her mentor is also dead. And that's about the extent of what I know about her. I try to envision a younger Meredith, playing tag in a village square, followed by a blurry-faced younger sister. Maybe she has blond hair too, or maybe she's a brunette. (Maybe she had buck teeth. Ugh.)

It all leads to absolutely nothing, and with a shrug, I decide to let it go. Cole might know, if I live long enough to see Dragon Age 9:40. Now, back to business. I stride into the courtyard, shoulders straight and chin held high.

A Templar in the courtyard sits on a crate, legs dangling off and his head leaning against the wall, snores coming from his wide opened mouth. I roll my eyes and shake my head and leave him be.

"Knight-Commander," a familiar voice greets me in a serious tone, and I nearly jump out of my skin. In a reflex that's probably more muscle-memory than instinct, I'm holding the Red Lyrium sword to Orsino's throat.

I've always thought elves looked weird and otherworldly in DA2. I was wrong. They are otherworldly, plain and simple. My eyes immediately glue themselves to his pointed ears. Pointed ears. Shit, don't stare too much, he might figure out something is wrong. With effort, I tear my eyes from his ears and look at his face. Jesus Christ in Thedas, how can anyone in their right minds make them servants? Everything about him, from his arched eyebrows to his smooth chin and his sharp jawline, speaks of nobility.

Oh, yeah, and fear. Because y'know, I'm holding a sword to his throat. Oops.

His eyes (eerily moss green and vivid) are as wide as saucers, and people around us stop talking and bustling and watch us in an eerie silence.

"Apologies. I have not slept well and find myself particularly agitated today."

I try to force Meredith's harsh, low voice into something resembling friendliness, but I might as well give up. Every word comes out like I'd much rather smite the heck out of Orsino than exchange courtesies. I'll have to work on that. Oh, and maybe dropping the glowing red sword will encourage friendship as well.

The sword disappears into the sheath I strapped on, and Orsino's eyes follow it, his lips pulled into a thin line. He looks uncertain and I sigh, and cringe inwardly when even the sigh sounds like an insult. Good god, no wonder this woman is always grumpy.

"The escape still bothers you?" Orsino asks, following in my steps. Wait, people escaped? Good for them. Can I buy them passage on the next boat to Rivain?

"No." I say, deciding that being short is probably the best way to avoid giving myself away. The Templars can't get suspicious of me. Sadly, this also means I can't just throw open the doors of the Circle and let everyone out, because that'd end in a massacre.

"I see." Orsino says, sadly giving me nothing else to determine when I ended up. Obviously we're past Act 1, because lyrium sword. But what else? I frown, trying to remember the details. My ADHD renders everything that's not today into this giant soup of 'has been' and picking out things is a hell of a job for scatterbrain me. I remember irrelevant little things like Hawke's sarcastic comment about boneless women flopping around, but that's not a memory from Meredith, sadly. It also makes me fight the guffaw that wants to come out, and Orsino gives me a strange, questioning look. I shake my head and hope he doesn't ask.

"If I may ask..."

"Ask."

Maybe I can get through DA2 with one-syllable words like: 'Yes, no, fuck, die, Templar, maleficar, elf, Harrowing, stop, Tranquil, sword, fetch.' and avoid every other conversation ever.

'I suspect you have questions.'

'Nope, Fen'Harel. Fetch.' Oh God, don't laugh. Don't laugh.

"Do you still want Hawke present at today's Harrowing? He has only just taken his vows and... might not be up for it."

"Hawke?" I ask, giving him an incredulous look. Hawke's supposed to be pro-mage, damn it! And the game has never given me the option to have Hawke as a freaking Templar, anyway.

"Carver Hawke?" Orsino asks, furrowing his brow, head tilted to the side.

"Right. Of course."

Why is he still looking at me? Oh wait, he asked me a question. Right, answer it.

"No. Send him to..."

Light bulb moment.

"Send him home to fetch the dwarf. The one that only says 'Enchantment'."

Orsino blinks at me, even more confused, but gives me a nod and finally leaves, his robes flapping around his feet. The irrational irrelevant thought of 'Do they wear anything under that?' surfaces in my head and I squash it down. Back off, down and shiver, good ol' perverted mind of mine.

Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 07:58 AM

"Knight-Commander," Cullen greets me, his voice rising a notch. Right, Cullen's in Kirkwall. Try not to drool all over his macaroni hairdo, Grethilda. Do I address him with Knight-Captain, or Cullen? Oh God, strike me with lightning, please.

"Rutherford."

His last name is probably safest, and I'm halfway past him when I realize he's looking at me with a 'Warden, find my missing pet rock' kind of look. You know, the look every villager ever gives you in Origins? Stifling a sigh, I turn back to him, really wishing that I could just crawl back into Meredith's uncomfortable bed and skip this day. He blanches, and I realize that I'm probably turning the full force of Meredith's Glare on him. It's not my fault that Meredith's resting face sits somewhere between 'You are unworthy of breathing in my presence.' and 'Die maleficar, die.'

"Something wrong, Rutherford?" I ask, trying in vain to bring something other than agitation into Meredith's voice. He blushes and clears his throat, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes at him. Does the man blush at everyone? Meredith's what, ten years older?

The realization that I have absolutely no idea how old Meredith is hits me, and I squelch the panic that follows. I also know nothing about her personal life save from hear-say about a sister that turned into an abomination, but I doubt her personal life is a topic during dinner-parties. If she ever goes to those.

"Well... Initiate Wilmod has disappeared. And there is word among the new recruits about a... private initiation. Nonsense, of course."

Wilmod. The name doesn't ring a bell at all, but the rest of what he says does. A private initiation? Oh fuck. This is the opening quest of act 2.

"Leave it be, Rutherford," I say, because there's no way in Hell I'm letting him face a Templar abomination, Hawke or no Hawke. Not after Kinloch. He opens his mouth to protest and I GLARE at him. He blanches and sputters and I nearly burst into laughter at his conflicted state.

"Cancel today's Harrowing, as well."

At this, Cullen becomes even paler, impossible as it sounds. He takes a step back, hands curling into fists and his mouth opening and closing like he turned into a fish in Templar armor. (He'd be a salmon, stubbornly swimming upstream only to couple with a hundred female fish, then die. God, that's depressing. I'm never getting the image of a human-sized salmon in Templar armor out of my mind, either. Not until I bleach out my eyeballs. Joy.)

He pinches the bridge of his nose, shoulders raised and set, fists clenching and unclenching. "Will we perform the Rite, then?"

For a second, it's tempting. The game tells us hardly anything about the Rite of Tranquility, not enough to piece together what it actually involves. Inquisition gives us a breadcrumb about how it's reversible, but nothing else. Well, except for Seekers. And only the Lord Seeker knows how to make more Seekers.

I'll just head into my office and interrogate Elsa about how she was made Tranquil, later.

"No," I tell him honestly, and his shoulders lower. He stops pressing his lips together, blood flows back in. The old carefree Cullen is still in there somewhere, because the scowl leaves his face and he places his hands on the pommel of his sword. Not in a threatening way, but in a 'I have no clue what to do with my hands' way.

"I believe the apprentice isn't ready yet."

"I see. I'll inform Orsino."

"No. I will discuss this with him myself."

I look over his head for a few seconds (Meredith is tall, damn) and meet his expectant gaze when I lower my eyes to him. I shake my head.

"Rutherford, when have you last had a day off?" I ask him, and his forehead creases into a frown.

"A day off?" he asks, gaping at me. The Templar Salmon is back, I guess.

Shit, Templars don't get days off? What kind of a place is this?

Oh right, it's Kirkwall.

"I don't remember..." he says, trailing off, eyes distant.

I chuckle and give him a nod.

"It's about time then. Take today off and do... whatever it is you do when you're not here. And stop worrying about Wilmod, I'll handle it." I tell him, and he stares at me like I've just grown a second head.

"I'm serious, Rutherford. Go away before I have them drag you out."

The threat sounds convincing enough, because he gives me a nod, expression still stuck on 'WTF just happened', before he trudges away.

It's not like he ever did anything other than just stand there and be pretty, right? Right?


	2. Radical

**Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 12:15 PM**

"So… let me get this straight," I say to Elsa, who leans against the wall next to the door leading out of Meredith's office, with her hands clasped together. Her Tranquil robes flow around her, roughly the same red and yellow as the Chantry robes. I'm getting so tired of seeing Chantry robes everywhere. Maybe I should have them banned. She'd look better in jeans and a T-shirt. Without the Brand on her forehead, she could've been a successful model in my world. Until she reached the ripe old age of thirty. Hell, with enough popularity and sway she might've made the Brand a popular tattoo...

It's painful to see, red and angry against her skin. Her blonde bangs are braided, two braids looping around her head and two others brushing her chin. My fingers itch to do something about the asymmetricity. I can't put her in a headlock and cut some inches off. She wouldn't object… but no, the Tranquil deserve their autonomy. Bitching over hairstyles is stupid.

"The lyrium-infused brand overloads a mage's mana supply. All of their mana flows back into the brand, rendering them Tranquil," I recap. Elsa nods.

"If Templars have to perform an emergency Rite, they bind their powers together to perform a collective Holy Smite, draining their mana. Am I right when I assume this is just as painful as being branded?"

She nods again, her expression composed. Every now and then she blinks, and I'm pretty sure she remains unfazed under my questioning. A Templar or a mage would have alarm bells blaring in their head. As a Tranquil, Elsa couldn't care less.

The prospect of a bunch of Templars randomly deciding 'let's make this one Tranquil for shits and giggles' and being able to do it without supervision is terrifying. I shove the thought out of my mind.

"What does the emergency Rite look like?" I ask her. She raises her eyebrows, creases appearing on her forehead. The Brand creases with it. What will it look like when she's old, gray and wrinkled?

Dad's insistence that I think long and hard on the two tattoos I'd wanted makes sense now. (I'm still a little pissed about losing them. Meredith has zilch tattoos. Can't wait to get her inked. A pink fluffy unicorn with rainbows coming out of its ass would be a good starting point… Friendship is magic and all that crap. Muahaha.)

Maybe I should get the Liberalist mark inked on her forehead. Now that would be something for the nobility of Kirkwall to gossip about.

Eksa shrugs. "From what I've heard and read, it looks like a pillar of white light. I have never seen it myself. It is not something they perform often."

That's good to hear. Let's keep it that way, yes? Unless… not having a Brand would be better for the Seekers I'll make in the future.

Seekers. No Brand. Shit.

Poor Cassandra.

A hasty knock on the half-opened door makes me turn around in my chair. Carver starts at the sudden movement and trips his way into my office, Sandal the dwarf at his side. For whatever unfathomable reason, it's hours after I sent him off. Kirkwall is large, but not that large, right? Oh, wait… he's probably had a frantic shouting match with mage Hawke, because if Templar Carver (or Carver at all) means anything, it's mage Hawke.

"I'm sorry, Knight-Commander, but something came up and..."

"I think you mean: Hawke happened," I interrupt while suppressing an eyeroll. My eyes are going to roll straight out of their sockets one day, if I keep this up.

Carver clears his throat and blushes. "Yes. Well. Ah."

He gestures towards Sandal.

"Sandal, as requested. Say 'Hello' to the Knight-Commander, Sandal."

Sandal gives me a bright smile and says: "Hello!" with a little wave. I can't help but smile. He's just so sweet. My fingers itch to pinch his cheek like one of those creepy old grandmothers. Oh Thedas, what are you doing to me?

Carver's expression tells me 'What could you possibly want with Sandal? ' and belatedly, I realize that I've probably induced a whirlwind of utter terror in the Hawke household. Poor Bodahn. I wonder how long it'll be before Mage Hawke storms the Gallows, demanding him back.

"Do inform your family that I'll be returning him shortly and unharmed. Emphasize unharmed , if you would. I need him solely to examine something."

'Something' being a madness-inducing sword, but Carver doesn't need to know that. Maybe he already does, seeing how I nearly beheaded Orsino with it on sheer reflex in public. Civilians beware the madwoman with a sword.

"Of course, Knight-Commander. By your leave."

"Go. We'll talk later."

The thrice-damned default goodbye sentence slips out of my mouth and I roll my eyes, squashing the urge to bash my head against the desk. I look at Sandal instead. His eyes are unnervingly gray-blue with blotches of… light? Lyrium? Ugh, I don't want to think about lore theories right now. His straw colored hair is combed back and still manages to be fluffy . I want to reach out and ruffle it, but resist the urge.

"Enchantment," he says with a bright smile, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He wears a red and gold doublet (I feel sorry for the poor souls who make those things, God knows it must've taken weeks) and beige pants. A short doublet and pants, because dwarf. Even if he's supposedly an elf/dwarf hybrid. Those hybrids end up non-elven every time, which is weird. Convenient, if you're born in an Alienage and they hide your existence until you're old enough to join human society. Damning if you're born from an affair between a Dalish and a human, like Feynriel.

"Yes, I guess you could say that, little guy," I mutter. I stifle a yawn behind my hand. My soul for a cup of coffee. Tevinter and Antiva probably has the stuff, drinking it black or with sugar and cream respectively. Kirkwall just has bitter tea with unsanitary water, which may or may not have a splash of decaying corpse in it. Joy of joys. With my bad luck, I'll die before the week is out, from some obscure disease modern medicine has squashed years ago.

"Well, straight to business, then."

I unsheathe the Red Lyrium sword. A high-pitched zzzzingggg reverberates through the room and makes my ears beep. Go away, tinnitus.

Sandal looks at the sword like it's a common houseplant, not a sword made out of the effing Taint . He doesn't react to the sound, either. Did he even hear it? Was it even outside my head? Should I ask him? I don't know...

"Can you do anything with this? I don't know, cleanse it?"

"Enchantment!"

Yeah, thanks, but I don't speak Savant. He takes the sword from me and staggers, nearly toppling over. A harsh, barking laugh comes out my mouth and I cringe at my new voice. I want a refund. And coffee. And my life back.

"Here," I say, taking the sword from him and pursing my lips, looking for a place to lay it down on. After a moment of deliberation, I use the sword to scrape all the files and other stuff from my desk, inwardly cackling gleefully when the reports scatter through the room. Wait, Elsa will see it as her duty to clean everything up. Shit.

Oh right, Elsa. Is still here. In the room. Oops.

It's uncanny how the Tranquil just fade into the background within a moment's notice. Still against the wall, her hands now clasped behind her back, she stares in the distance with a blank expression on her face.

I really, really hope the Antivan Crows never enlist Tranquil. They don't fear, they do as they're told no matter what you ask them to do, and they don't ask questions. Ever. Wait... They don't ask questions. So I can make Elsa my main messenger, my mediator? Who would suspect a Tranquil of being pro-mage?

"Elsa," I say, wheels turning in my head.

"Yes, Knight-Commander?" she asks in her flat tone. I've always thought her voice actress botched the whole Tranquil tone, even wondered if she was secretly a spy for Orsino, but in reality her voice is flat and monotone.

God, isn't she dying from heat in that Chantry/Circle trenchcoat thing of hers? The coat is dark blue and the shirt underneath red, and both are covered with yellow starbursts. As if the Brand doesn't scream Chantry property . Also, WTF is the beige thing wrapped around her waist, tied neatly with red fabric? A symbol of 'purity'? Even though everyone knows unspeakable things happen to the Tranquil living in a Circle? In Kirkwall, at least...

"Find me as much red ink as you can find, and accompany me to the repository, specifically the phylactery chamber."

She leaves without comment, and I gesture to my chair.

"Sit, Sandal. God knows I already hate this desk."

Sandal regards me with serious, knowing eyes, and clambers on the chair in silence. Not even a cheery "Enchantment!" to let me know if he approves.

Oh well.

Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 01:00 PM

The Circle's phylactery chamber is in the basement. More precisely, it spans the entire basement. Every available surface is packed with vials of blood, and I pick up the nearest vial to see if it's been labeled. Thank my lucky stars for labels. It reads 'Grace'. I blink. Grace. Has Hawke saved her yet? Did Anders kill her? Was that even Grace or was it some other girl? Damn. Curse my non-existent memory to hell and back. My ears pop, instantly filled by a faint hum. Damn underground air pressure.

So. I cheated to get in here. The absent guard is drinking his weight in Chantry-sponsored ale in the Hanged Man, courtesy of moi . Origins' mage origin saved me from a major blunder. Thanks, Lily and Jowan. I promise I'll bail you out of the Aeonar. A polite request might be sufficient.

"Put the box on that table." I point to the nearest available surface. As soon as Elsa puts down the box filled with inkwells and quills, I grab one of each and stare dumbly at them. Paper might be a good idea, as I can't send my scribbled hand per raven. I like having two hands.

"Did you bring pa- ah, thanks. You're a sweetheart," I say when Elsa digs through the wooden box, handing me a scroll of blank vellum. Finally, a use for the god-forsaken stuff. Even the dumbest bandits lugged blank scrolls around in Origins, I used to end up with dozens of them. Destroyed them by the bunch. Elsa doesn't react to my endearment and I shrug.

Request: Lily. Thanks. Stannard.

Hm… Maybe I should be more specific. As amusing as it would be to have multiple Lily's shipped over. Post-order disgraced Chantry initiates. Heh.

"Elsa, how do I address whoever is in charge of the Aeonar?"

Elsa blinks.

"That would be Divine Beatrix III."

Fuck my life.

What begun as a faint thrum in my head turns into a roar. Sweat rolls down my forehead and temples, pain fades in and out of existence behind my eyes, in tandem with exploding and imploding lights. Bile rises in the back of my throat. I stagger and lean against the table. My skin tingles and my scalp feels like it's stretched tight over my skull. Pin-pricks dance over my skin. What the fuck?

Blinking the lights away doesn't work. My eyes dart from place to place, surveying them. Huh, they aren't my imagination. It's the phylacteries. For whatever reason, they're glowing a growing bright blue, shimmering and pulsating. My shoulder muscles lock up and I rotate my neck, wincing at the loud popping sound.

"Oh fuck this," I mutter to myself, swallowing bile around the lump in my throat. Time to take a leap of faith.

Dear Mother Dorothea,

You don't know me and I don't know you. Not yet, anyway. We have a mutual friend in Sister Leliana. I can tell you things about her, but I'll keep it short: Marjolaine's betrayal, a dream about darkness and falling, a blooming rose on a dying bush, and Andraste's Grace.

I'm sorry for the scare, but I need your help. I know I was am one of the most brutal Knight-Commanders in the Order, but things aren't the way they were before. My values, morals and goals have changed. I have prayed and sought guidance from the Maker, and the Maker gave me peace.

There is a girl by the name of Lily in the Aeonar. I wish for her to be transferred to the Gallows. Her… history will help me change the animosity between my charges and my Templars.

Also: Jowan. Needed. Star-crossed lovers and stuff.

Please. For a better world for all of us.

Desperately,

Meredith

"Copy this," I order Elsa, and she starts scribbling away, her eyes darting from the letter to her own parchment. Her handwriting is much more readable than mine, considering how I still struggle with the quill and right-handedness. I'm a leftie, god-damn it. Writing with my right hand is like trying to pick a lock with my tongue.

Pain stabs between my eyes, and I stifle a groan. Maybe I should just blow this place up. Whatever magic they use to make phylacteries and keep the blood from clotting, it's obviously something evil. Why else would it make me feel like I'm going to drop dead if I stay for more than five minutes?

Kirkwall is the biggest city in the Free Marches and the Grand Cleric is here. Maybe I should pay her a visit first, to find out if I can arrange anything about the phylacteries in Denerim. Probably better than going back upstairs, grabbing the nearest blunt weapon, and smashing all of the vials like a barbarian.

"Sorry, Elsa. I must ask you to haul everything out and put it back where you found it."

Elsa nods and does as she's told, hefting the box on her hip. The vials tinkle against each other. The further upstairs we go, the warmer and less stale the air becomes. I accompany Elsa to the repository, which spans the underground level above the phylactery chamber, and help her put everything back where it belongs.

Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 01:15 PM

On the way back to my office, we pass Alrik, who has a Tranquil on her knees

I've crossed the space and given him a damn satisfying right hook before he even sees me coming. The girl scrambles out of the way. Alrik picks himself up off the floor and glares, until he realizes that he's glaring at his Knight-Commander.

"Knight-Commander," he says, his voice icy and his cheeks red with indignation. I narrow my eyes . He brushes off his armor and has the gall to look like someone caught him cheating at Wicked Grace instead of... whatever he'd been planning. At least I was on time. At least now I can put a stop to this kind of thing.

"Get out," I snap. He looks at me, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together.

"Excuse me?" he asks, puffing out his chest like he's a rooster. Now isn't the time for Templar Salmon to acquire a feathered friend, so I shove the image out of my mind.

"You heard me. Get out. You are hereby removed from the Order. Good fucking riddance."

"You can't-"

"Oh, I can. Now out ."

He shoves me when he passes me. His face is flushed with anger, his teeth bared, hand curled into a tight fist. Someone chuckles from behind and I whirl around, coming face to face with Thrask.

I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from bursting into Brave's theme song, to be honest. He's even more ginger than a co-worker of mine everyone nicknamed 'Ginger'. His mustache flows into a thick goatee. One of my coworkers tried to grow a goatee and it ended in a bushy disaster.

Thrask is one of the good ones, er… right up until he starts a conspiracy to overthrow Meredith. (If he hadn't had Hawke's sibling/lover/friend kidnapped, he would've still been the good guy.) He gives me a nod and I nod back, and we part ways.

Maybe Hawke won't have to wade their way through a group of Templars and mages to rescue their whoever-gets-abducted, after all. I can only hope.

And pray what I just did doesn't come back to bite me in the ass. Imagine the butterfly effect. Alrik as Red Templar general instead of Samson by the time Inquisition rolls around.

Yes, my mind really makes connections like that. It'll drive me insane before Red Lyrium does.

I turn to the Tranquil girl. Her skin is dark as rich soil. Light brown bangs fall over her left eye, her Chantry trenchcoat dusty and tearing at the seams. She regards me with the usual blank expression and cool brown eyes. Her dark eyebrows are bushy and thick, her lips full and prominent. Where Elsa is daylight, this Tranquil reminds me of a darker Pocahontas with lighter hair.

Speaking of which: damn you Bioware. Wasn't inverting Deanarys Targaryen in Danarius enough? Was throwing a magicless Tranquil Elsa from Frozen in the mix really necessary? I'm glad I never sent David Gaider the peanut butter cups I read he favors.

"Thank you. His interference distracted me from my duties. My name is Niana. You're the Knight-Commander," she says in a bland monotone.

OK, take a deep breath. Blink the threatening tears away. For God's sake, don't scrunch up your face like you bit into a lemon. She can't help the fact she sees rape as a distraction from her duties. And you don't want to punch her, you want to punch Alrik. Again . Better yet, I'll shove my sword into Justice's hands and sing a Disney villain song when he lobs Alrik's head off. Shit, I should've detained him and shoved him into solitary instead of letting him go. Tossed the key into a lava pit or something.

"That's all right," I tell her. "He won't bother anyone else again, if I can help it. In the Gallows, anyway. I won't stand for it any longer."

I should find a safe place for the Tranquil to stay. Preferably in my office. Yeah, that's perfect for the time being. One at a time, with Niana as the first. I smile at her.

"Say, how does assisting me for a while sound to you?"

Niana shrugs. "As agreeable as any duty the Chantry gives me."

Ugh. "That's settled then," I say, my lips itching to grimace. "Elsa will accompany you to the clinic in Darktown for an examination and healing, should you need it… Don't mention anything about me to the healer, yet."

The two Tranquil girls look at each other and that's sufficient introduction, I guess. Oh well. I don't have time for this shit, I need to lie down and die. Cause of death: phylactery-induced migraine. Does that make the Templars or mages the perpetrator? Whatever, dead me won't give a shit.

"Buy the healer a mini-banquet. Oh, and get the letter to Mother Dorothea. Last seen in Lothering. No clue where she lives now. Now off with you two so I can sleep like the dead."

**Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 03:02 PM**

"Not a chance."

"But-" says Ser-Whatever-His-Name-Is. He barged into my office half an hour ago and is still ranting. Thank God for my one-hour nap. Even though it included a terrifying visit to the Fade. Apparently it's open season on my soul. Ever had dreams where you realize you went to school naked? Except this time, a surprisingly large variety of demons chased me all over Kirkwall while my (nude) legs felt like lead. Yeah, fun fun fun.

I couldn't do anything, captive in my own head. At least dream-me is a pro at dodging ice projectiles. Thanks, Despair Demons, a zig-zagging marathon was just what I needed to feel refreshed. The Desire Demons were fun to ogle, thank fuck. Dream-me would've pounced on one if I hadn't been occupied by not getting roasted to death by a bunch of Slugs On Fire.

Maybe I should start writing a will for when a Desire Demon fucks me into oblivion. Maybe I should strangle them with those necklaces they wear. 'Wait, why aren't you moving? Huh, my bad, sorry. Excuse me, I'm wasting daylight.'

Ser-Whatever clears his throat. I have no fucking clue who he is, other than 'a Templar'. He's bald save for a thick black mustache, which twitches whenever he sneers at me. His skin is yellowish brown and marred by old scars. I'm no doctor, but it looks like he stitched some of them up himself, and neglected a few others. His face is a landscape of stern lines and puffed out cheeks, muddy eyes glaring at me. I bet he's counting to ten inside his head, trying not to throttle me.

Something about his coloring is off. Maybe he's denying his Antivan heritage and dyes his mustache black with coal dust. Maybe his parents were star-crossed lovers, heirs to the thrones of Nevarra and Orlais, two countries at war.

Wait, what. God, get your head out of the clouds, Grethilda. This guy just has a black beard and a dark skin and that's it, no forbidden love needed. Besides, he might as well have been the child of two mages, or a mage and a Templar. It's realistic, and depressing.

"No is no and it will remain a 'no'." I repeat, gritting my teeth.

Ser's disgusted noise makes Cassandra sound like a mewling kitten. He throws his hands in the air, huffing out a breath through his nose. His lips twist into a sneer, his teeth bared.

"But he killed Templars in the Chantry! He killed a Tranquil in the Chantry!"

Oh, he's talking about Anders. Darktown is overflowing with apostates, but sure, I'll know who you're talking about if you don't mention names beyond 'the apostate from Darktown'.

"That he did," I say reasonably. Ser Whatever blinks at me, his expression going blank with incomprehension. I sigh and make a show of stacking random papers on my desk. Let him stew for a few seconds. He deserves it.

"He's also the only thing keeping Darktown and Lowtown's people alive . So no, Ser, I am not authorizing a search. Leave the man be. And don't you dare instigate mob justice."

"But he's an abomination!"

" I know !" I yell at him, fighting the urge to punch him in the face. I guess Meredith has anger issues. Great. I clench my hands into fists and keep them at my sides instead of breaking his nose.

"I know, and we are going to do nothing about it. I don't want to hear another word unless he burns down a Chantry."

Ehm.

Ser Whatever's stare is just as incredulous as Cullen's had been when I told him to take the day off, and I jab a finger at him.

"And if I find out that you did something without my authority, you'll find yourself on the streets with Samson and Alrik before you can say 'Smite'. No salary, no lyrium. Understood?"

He shrinks back as if I'd hit him, eyes wide and mouth open. After standing there frozen for a few seconds, he nods vigorously.

"Good. Now leave."

He's out the door before anyone can say 'Smite'. Heh, good boy.

Would Samson want his position back? Leaving the door to my office wide open, I make my way to the courtyard. Thieves and apostates, go ahead and snoop. It's not like anything in there is mine, and I have no idea what most is used for anyway.

In the courtyard, I gesture for Carver to meet me. He does so, his face ashen in anticipation. Good God, stop thinking I'll lob your head off already.

"Knight-" he begins, and I cut him off with a gesture. Fuck titles.

"Go to the docks and bring me Samson," I tell him. "In one piece and unharmed. Tell him he's getting his position back. Or even better, tell him he's getting Alrik's position. And if he doesn't want it, I'll find a way for him to get a regular decreasing dose of lyrium to get off the blasted stuff."

Doctor's don't prescribe decreasing dosages for shits and giggles. Cullen was an idiot for quitting cold turkey. In fact, I'll prove it. Starting tomorrow, I'll decrease my dosage by a measly teaspoon a week. Yeah, it'll take years and won't help the older veterans, but it's better than vomiting up my lungs.

Caver's mouth falls open. Am I going too fast with this? Maybe I should tone down the savior complex and act more like Meredith. But it's not like we ever saw Meredith until the end of Act 2, when the Qunari go on murder rampages. Oh, shit, right, I'll have to do something about that, too. Where did Isabela say she found the book?

Carver leaves quickly enough when I shoo him out. Using him as an errand boy is damn amusing.

Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 04:38 PM

Hawke happens. I notice her arrival because I'm in the Gallows courtyard on the balcony, above the spot where Cullen usually is. As I'm obscured by the biggest statue (the abominable one with the useless wings that'll never be able to lift its entire weight, the two-bladed staff and… spikes? Pincers? I don't even want to get close enough to see what they are), I can see her coming while she doesn't see me.

Maybe I can have the statues' feet encased in cement, or weighed down, or maybe I should have their heads covered in steel so they'll fall on their faces if they're ever animated. Ha, watching them flail around would be funny. But, back to Hawke.

For… reasons (appreciating the phenomenon that is Hawke, mainly), I abandon my investigation of Kirkwall's statues.

Hawke is the striking image of her default version, only with flushed cheeks and longer hair, braided and reaching her lower back. Her mercenary armor is faded and worn. It's after the Deep Roads, so why the hell hasn't she bought something new? Is she as frugal as my grandmother, who never did anything because it cost money?

Her armor is covered in gore and blood, and I'll be damned if that isn't Anders, Isabela and Varric she has with her. Anders looks like he'd rather be digging his own grave than be in the Gallows' courtyard. Isabela gives the lusty eye to a few Templars and an innocent wave when they scowl back, and Varric just shifts his weight from foot to foot, frowning and adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves.

Hawke sprints to Cullen's usual spot in that ridiculous girly sprint of hers, and stops dead in her tracks when Cullen is nowhere to be found.

"What the..." she mutters, frowning and looking around. "I think Cullen went rogue, guys."

"Oooh, maybe he's at the Blooming Rose. You know, investigating ," Isabela offers with a smirk and a quirked eyebrow.

Damn you Cullen, I told you to leave it alone. That's latrine duty for you, mister macaroni-hairdo.

Varric chuckles. "I think he'd sooner end up at Anders's clinic than the Blooming Rose, Rivaini."

"If he does, I'll show him the true meaning of-" Blue energy crackles around Anders. Varric stares at him with wide eyes.

"- ouch !"Hawke elbows him in the ribs, and the blue glow around him subsides.

"Get it together, Blondie," Varric hisses, and I roll my eyes. How did they never get caught?

"Sorry," Anders mutters, embarrassed. He looks up and his eyes fall right on me. He blanches, staggers backwards, and promptly trips over his feet in his attempt to get away. Hawke laughs, until she follows Anders's horrified look of doom. She pulls her staff off her back, falling into a battle stance.

I push myself away from the statue and hold up my hands in the universal sign of 'I'm unarmed. Please don't kill the poor unarmed citizen'.

"Be so kind to help your friend back to his feet, Master Tethras," I say, and he looks at me, one side of his lips pulled up and eyebrows raised in incredulity.

"You're asking the dwarf to haul the human to his feet?" he asks, but he does so anyway. I speed-walk from the balcony down the stairs and take Cullen's spot.

Anders looks like he wants nothing more than to rip out my - Meredith's - throat. And if said throat hadn't been mine, I would've held her hands behind her back, cackling at her fear. Muahahaha. Sadly, I'm in Meredith's body and don't feel like dying a second gruesome death in the same day.

"I will ignore your clumsiness for the moment. Make sure it does not happen again," I go on, scowling at Anders. He gives it right back at me, his eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a sneer that'd make Barkspawn look like an Orlesian poodle.

Hawke is smart enough to intervene, side-stepping Anders and Varric and blocking my view of them. Or their view of me.

"You'll find that you're short one Templar. Sorry, not sorry. Oh, he was an abomination. Not sorry about that, either," she says, picking at her cuticles, and I nearly smile at her snarky voice. Oh, if I could steal that voice, I would. Even if it would sound ridiculous coming from Meredith.

"I see. Anything else I should know?" In my head, I'm giving her a high-five because thank you baby Jesus, she's pro-mage.

Hawke shrugs. "Nope. Oh wait, almost forgot Idunna. You might want to send someone to pick her up," she says, tapping her fingers against her staff.

"Where?"

"The Blooming Rose. She's an apostate." Another shrug.

"And?"

"Oh, so you're not going to shower me in compliments and gratitude because I faced a maleficar and survived? And here I was looking forward to basking in your pride."

My eyes roll of their own accord and I bite back a chuckle. I narrow my eyes at her.

"How do I know it's not a trap? Perhaps you are a blood mage yourself."

Another half-hearted shrug and no denial at all, and Varric reaches for his crossbow. Anders tenses and holds an actual fucking fireball in the palm of his hand, and hey, I'm pretty flammable even if I'm a Templar. Coupe de ravage isn't my look.

"I suppose you want a reward. Ten sovereigns will have to do."

She opens her mouth, and instead of a 'thank you', I get a:

"Just ten sovereigns? A blood mage told me to slit my own throat. My life is worth more than ten flimsy gold coins! Besides, I saved Keran from getting a demon shoved down his throat."

Varric curses.

"Ah, Hawke means the blood mage we met on the road. On the Wounded Coast. The dead blood mage. You know, the one with a deadly case of the stabbies. Right, Rivaini?"

I forgot all about Isabela. She's off to the side, making eyes at a mage with shaved blond hair and stubbles. He has his back to us, but I think I recognize him… I just can't put my finger on it. Wasn't he the last mage to be Tranquilized? Whatever your name is, I'm terribly sorry that I got here after they performed the Rite on you. And Isabela… oh no. Bela, please don't.

"Aren't you a nice piece of…" Isabela says, creeping up on him from behind. He looks over his shoulder, and Isabela's mouth snaps shut. His eyes are the most striking blue I've ever seen, almost like mine. (Please tell me Meredith didn't… you know, I don't even want to finish that thought. And he's too old, I think. Thank the Maker for small miracles.)

"Oh. That's just sad. Never mind, forget I said anything." She taps her fingers against her leggings. The Tranquil blinks.

"As you wish," he says, and he continues with… whatever he's doing. Maybe he's meditating, contemplating on the Maker or Andraste. Or his 'sins as a mage.'

I sigh and watch Varric sweat and Hawke yawn. Oh, goodie, I'm boring her. Maybe I can just bore my rivals to death by giving a lecture about the exciting properties of bleach. It's worth a try.

"Er, Rivaini? A little help here?" Varric asks. Isabela shakes her head, and strides back to Hawke and company, brilliant smile back on her face.

"Stabbies, sure. Plenty."

I wonder if Tranquil feel anything when they orgasm. Wait, do they even orgasm at all? That's physical, right?

Why am I thinking about orgasms?

"Take this and go," I tell Hawke, shoving more sovereigns into her hands. I didn't count them, might've been more than double than she asked for. Wait, she didn't ask for a specific amount anyway. Oops. Oh well, the Chantry's loaded. No fault in spending some of that hard earned blood-money.

Speaking of blood-money, isn't Sebastian supposed to be here somewhere? No, he's at the Chantry. And Fenris is holed up in his mansion with the corpses in the hall. If Hawke ever met him at all.

"Fenris will adore me when I tell him I met you, you know," Hawke says, before leaving.

Thank you, universe. Now give me my life back.

Hawke throws a lazy handwave in my general direction, takes Anders by the arm and drags him away.

"I hope she kills Keran. The only good Templar is a dead one," he whispers to her. Yikes. Way to make friends, Anders. Hawke drives her nails into his arm and he winces.

"My brother is a Templar, you ass," she hisses.

"You hate Carver," he protests.

"He's still my…" their voices fade away. Anders stomps away at first but has to match Hawke's pace, lest he drag her off, one hand tightly gripping his staff. It's a miracle it doesn't break. It's also a miracle no Templars seem to see the damned thing. I'll have to get them all eye-exams or something. Or maybe have them checked for concussions.

Oh wait, the only place for that is Anders's clinic, and I doubt he'd appreciate every Templar in Kirkwall showing up on his doorstep. Even if it is to squint at a bunch of random letters tacked to a wall.

… Or it might just be that I told them to leave Anders alone. There's still Hawke, though, staff sheathed through loops on her pack. Presumably a blood mage, flanked by a healer. A dangerous combination. Hm… an unstoppable combination? What would happen if every blood mage in Kirkwall teamed up with a healer? An army to overthrow every Thedosian Circle? Something to think about.

"You!" I say, making a 'come here' gesture to Carver. Carver forgets himself and huffs in frustration before blanching. Gah, really, why does everyone think I'll have them hanged for annoying me? Like they have a good reason for it.

Duh, of course they have a good reason for it. I shove the sack of remaining sovereigns in his hands.

"Get this to the dwarf. He'll know what to do with it. Oh, and after that, bring this Idunna they were talking about. The Blooming Rose."

He flushes and I roll my eyes.

"Don't rush on my account," I add, for good measure, and he stomps off, red to the tips of his ears.

I'm probably taking this way too quickly, but I can't stop. Aside from Elthina and the Viscount, I'm the most powerful person in Kirkwall. And Elthina is debatable, because all she does is stand on the second floor of the Chantry and look down.

Right, Chantry. Vael. Action.

I gesture for a bunch of Templars to come closer.

"I want to snatch Sebastian Vael right out from under Elthina's nose, and here's how we will do it. Well, how you lot will do it…"


End file.
